Azmat Roman ✨
Bio
Stories (158)
Filter by community
How Can We Reduce the Ageing of Our Brain.
When my grandfather turned 85, we threw him a small party. Cake, candles, laughter—typical stuff. But in the quiet moment after the crowd had thinned, he looked at me and said, “I just wish my mind was still as sharp as my sense of humor.”
By Azmat Roman ✨8 months ago in Longevity
A Letter I Never Sent to My Mother.
I found it yesterday, tucked away in a journal I had abandoned halfway through my sophomore year of college. A yellowing sheet of notebook paper, folded twice and stained at the corners. I recognized the handwriting instantly—mine. The ink had faded in places, but the words still held the weight they did when I first scribbled them down, late one night, in the silence of a dorm room three hundred miles from home.
By Azmat Roman ✨8 months ago in Families
The Day My Silence Screamed .
The clock ticked softly in the background, its rhythmic click clack the only companion to the stillness of my room. I sat cross-legged on the cold floor, staring at the wall as though it held answers. Outside, the world buzzed with life—cars honking, children laughing, neighbors yelling. But inside me, there was only silence.
By Azmat Roman ✨8 months ago in Confessions
The Moon Doesn't Owe the Sun an Explanation
She rises when the world sleeps, cloaked in silver silence, a keeper of secrets the sun could never bear. She doesn’t chase light — she reflects it, bends it, wears it like a quiet crown. And still, they ask her why she’s never as bright, never as loud, never as warm.
By Azmat Roman ✨8 months ago in Poets
Through the Mirror, She Waits.
The mirror in the attic had always been wrong. Not broken—its surface was perfectly smooth, unmarred by cracks or age. It wasn’t dusty, despite the years. It didn’t even reflect the light quite right. Sometimes, it made things appear a second slower, like a video buffering on bad Wi-Fi. But no one paid much attention to the attic. Except me.
By Azmat Roman ✨8 months ago in Fiction
He Wrote Me Into His Story.
I met him on a Thursday, the kind of gray-skied day that made the world feel softer, as if everything around us was exhaling. He was sitting at the corner table of the little bookstore café I always ran to when life grew too loud. He had a notebook open, pen in hand, coffee gone cold. Something about him looked like he belonged in a different time—quiet, observant, full of old soul energy.
By Azmat Roman ✨8 months ago in Fiction
